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Everyone has days where things go wrong. Today I had one. It wasn’t big stuff. No one was gruesomely injured. We didn’t lose our house, our dog, our children. Nothing burned. Still, my day just sucked. I put all of the blame squarely on Comcast, my mortal enemy.

I believe that Comcast, married to Obama, could power a universe with their evil. Set that to the music of Kenny G and it would form a trifecta from which Armageddon could be set into motion.

My family had been wailing daily of the slowness of our internet. To me, it was fine. I’m not running any power plants or controlling mutant dwarfs through imaginary lands, though. I’m just tracking my calories, my steps, checking Facebook, ordering stuff and writing crap. What do I know?

So, I got sucked into the Comcast myth. The myth that it would be zippy fast and we would, indeed, be ushered into the world of the future.

This is its insidious path of destruction:

Since its installation I have seen The Goose shoot smoke from his ears. I have seen him throw things that make the dogs run and cower. He has clung to our neighbor, begging for help. The man has utilized his mighty powers of obscene swearing to the utmost. Comcast shut his entire office down. It has caused his printer (which is also my printer) not to accept things from me. Apparently my sweet obedient Macbook is making romantic overtures, but the printer is in flannel pajamas. Like an unhappy marriage, they can no longer communicate.

Our TV picture is now made of little squares, through which I must only imagine what is going on. Our DVR doesn’t work.

To call Comcast, one must call the 800 number. Oh, there’s a local number, but it routes one to the 800 number. Sneaky. Once answered, there is a series of digits that must be pressed to get to an operator. This takes a good 45 minutes, if it indeed ever happens. This is all done to the accompaniment of Kenny G. It causes the equivalent of ice picks to my eardrums and goes on for eons. Dishwashers get unpacked and repacked. I stripped four beds, washed the sheets and remade them during one wait. I think one day I drove to the grocery store, shopped and was putting away groceries before a human being answered.

When the operator comes on, the fun begins.

I have no problem with India. I loved the Marigold Hotel movie. I liked Eat, Pray, Love. I like my Indian orthopedic doctor. I have a real problem, though, with someone six million miles away telling me they understand, could I please calm down. When I hung up from the last call The Goose said “The man on the other end of that call is thanking Vishnu you’re not his wife”. Damn straight.

I got so frustrated, I cried. Not from sadness, but from sheer rage.

Three times I’ve managed to get a service person out here. It took 11 calls and 3 full man hours waiting on hold to accomplish this. In 30 days, three service people. Each time, they have told me the last one didn’t know what he was doing. Ya think? Yesterday, I was told my equipment, which was installed 30 days ago, was old.

My bill, my first bill, has a mysterious $125 extra charge on it. I still have not reached anyone to ask about this but feel if I just ignore them for a while, someone will eventually contact me about it.

So, in the midst of this misery, I needed to mail stuff. Stuff I couldn’t print. I’ll take my laptop to the UPS store, thought I. On the way my phone died. This probably was not the fault of Comcast, but one never knows. I think the very presence of that unholy entity in our home could be sending poison throughout each and every electrical appliance as well as my brain. I dropped my phone in with my dry cleaning and figured that out about an hour later after numerous panic filled searches through my car and purse. Had to go back to the cleaners and try to explain that. In Korean.

The UPS store couldn’t print my stuff. I still don’t understand why. I blame Comcast or Obama. I couldn’t call anyone and whine about it, though, because my phone still wouldn’t work.

Came home, tried to use the little printer that came with my computer two years ago. Doesn’t work! Keeps telling me it is out of paper. I have told it, in a fatal move with a paper weight made of rock that it did, indeed, have paper after all, but that won’t matter to it where it’s going. I do blame Comcast here because I couldn’t use my regular printer because it is out, lost in the new internet stratosphere.

Why, you ask, do I waste time writing about this? Because all of this started because my home office is FUBAR, all due to the inadequacy of Comcast. I’m hoping an angry mob will form. A group that will complain loudly enough that someone will listen. A sound loud enough to be heard all the way to India. Or even a group that will band together with me to systematically spray paint every truck and sign that says Comcast and change it to Combastard.

It’s 4:00 and I’m calling it a day. I know when I’m beaten. I am waiving the white wine, I mean white flag. I find that these days are most often followed by a day where everything works beautifully. I’m counting on one of those tomorrow and if I don’t get one I’m finding the first Comcast truck I see on the road. You’ll read the headlines.

The Goose said the other day that, truly, alcohol was the cause of most of the trouble in the world. I was shocked that he would say that to me. I felt personally offended.

I sound like a bigger lush than I am. I would say I am low to medium in the world of 45 – 55 year old women who love wine. I feel like wine ranks in the top ten list of things necessary to a good life, but not in the top 5. I think most women my age feel wine is what KEEPS trouble from happening. I’m sure that during those scary mid-winter evenings, when my child announced he had a project due the next day, his father was working late and our printer was out of ink, a small tipple is what kept me from committing a harmful crime upon a child. I have no doubt the Wright Brothers mother, after watching her children take to the skies, turned to her best friend and said, “well, I think I need a little something”. I feel certain the reason so many marriages stayed together in the 50s is surely because of that golden slice of time, “the cocktail hour”. How many women would have made it through visits from mother-in-laws without a little help?

That said, it HAS caused problems.

The Goose’s and my favorite thing is the crime blotter from the little paper from the town near our lake house. Each and every one of these brilliant crimes is alcohol fueled and causes us no end of mirth.

Here is just a sampling of some police blotter incidents, not all from our town:

Man said ex-girlfriend broke into home when he was not home and stole all the sheetrock from his house.

Police responded to a report of a drunk man who had broken into a store. Upon entering the store, the officer shouted out “Marco”, to which the suspect, who was hiding, responded “Polo”.

Police responded to a man who claimed someone was in his bedroom, standing in the corner and looking at him. When officers turned on the light, it was discovered that it was a cardboard cutout of Arnold Schwartzenegger.

Surveillance cameras showed a man weaving through the pet store and shoving a baby alligator down his shirt.

And my favorite of all time:

5. A woman on 37th street called 911 and reported that her boyfriend refused to BRING HER A CASSEROLE.

Okay, we’ve all been hungry and number 5 might be understandable. I once cried because The Goose would not leave work to bring me dumplings when I was pregnant. Clearly, though, each of these perps was out of his mind, most likely on MD 20/20, that low rent standby.

It’s true that alcohol does make some people fight more (not me, I love everyone and by that I mean, everyone) and it has caused countless mad bouts of slurring karaoke at office parties that has made millions call in sick to work to avoid embarrassment the next day. But, on the flip side, it has caused billions and billions of mothers, throughout history, to glance at the clock while toddlers drool on their pants leg, puppies poo on their floor and husbands call to say they’ll be late shudder with glee that 5:00 has come again and they can sit quietly and sip a glass while Mr. Rogers plays softly in the background.

It prompts stories to be retold, year after year because someone does something stupid involving jello or shaving cream. It allows us to know deep dark secrets because someone belts out their inner desires at a party. Someone I know, but will not name, once went back into a bar, at closing time, went into the bathroom and fell asleep on the toilet not to awaken until she was found locked in the next morning. That’s a good story, years later, that wouldn’t have happened if she’d been pounding diet Coke. She grew up and became, guess what, a fabulous, stylish and respectable attorney. See? It all turned out just fine.

Yes, it does give false courage and cause self respecting women to pour dish soap into neighbor’s tacky fountains. Okay, it pushes some women to call up ex-husbands while their good friends egg them on. (I’m sorry.) It whispers to some idiotic ladies, while lingering over a glass at dinner, to tell their children that one of them was conceived in their grandparents’ swimming pool. Geez. It’s possible The Goose had something there.

Like the saying goes, no good story ever started with “hey y’all, want a salad?”. I’m not promoting booze, and I’m not talking to folks that truly have a problem. I’m just musing about it and repeating the conversation I had with The Goose when he uttered his proclamation. I agree, it’s not for everyone. It causes beaucoup problems for many, but most of us keep it in its place and in perspective. I’m sharing with those women who call each other up right in the middle of helping with math homework and say “Hey, wanna come over for a quick glass?” and the response is “Oh, thank the Lord in Heaven!”. Speaking to those of us who have sometimes wrapped a waiter in a snuggly hug when he arrives and announces that he has La Crema by the glass”.

In any tee-totaling argument I always pull out the trump card when I whip out this doozy: The first miracle was water into…what’s that? Oh, yeah, wine.

I am not whining, I promise, but this weather simply won’t work for me. I heard a man at the store yesterday say “oh, I don’t do cold”. Well, what the heck do you think we’re doing, Mister? What did he mean by this? How is he getting around it?

We all know this is coming every year. I have gotten better at it but the lack of outdoor exercise, absence of sunlight, vitamin D, green trees, flowers, lawn mowing, absence of the smell of grass just gets to me after a while.

Saturday, the unthinkable happened, and that beastly, feces throwing mammal, General E. Lee, our Georgia groundhog, predicted another six weeks of this limbo. I love groundhogs, have raised them, honk and wave at them when I pass them on the road and never wish any animal harm…except this one. I think his stint of fame is done and it’s high time to usher in a new one. His “wildlife sanctuary” is a particularly horrible place I’d like to see shut down as well, but I won’t get on my soap box. But don’t give them money.

I have certainly bemoaned this season before and won’t be redundant and complain about it again. So, constructively, this is what I’m doing to keep from crawling under the bed and crying:

I ordered chicks. This is really going to piss off the Goose, who feels we should be scaling back on all things animal. I ordered top hat babies, sure to thrill and delight all. The thought that they will be mailed to me on February 27th and, once more, the very proper man from the post office will call me and tell me I have a package that is making noise, this makes me happy. I want chickens who strut around like they’re proud and look like David Bowie. I want rock stars.

I cleaned out my pantries and put in fabulous wrapping paper as shelf paper and I feel that if a surprise inspection by Martha Stewart should happen I would feel proud of my self before I ushered her rude self out of the house. (When reading back over this without my glasses, I thought I had written that I had cleaned out my panties, not pantries. This has caused me to want to make a trip to Victoria’s Secret, which might just cheer me up, so hooray for poor eyesight.)

I am looking at greenhouse catalogues. This is a yearly ritual wherein I make the Goose drive me past several great greenhouses I know of and I say “gosh, her husband must really love her” and I sigh. So far, it’s not working but I am adding the bonus pressure of telling him that Tortellini could live in there in the winter and save all that money we spend heating the barn. I think if I could root around in there in the dirt I’d be happier.

I go to Pikes and walk around in their greenhouse and just smell things. I do this because I do not have one of my own…

I bake. I can’t cook but I can make a cake. Pink ones with pink icing, lemon pound cakes, chocolate with coffee icing. I don’t even like cake, I just like to smell them and see them sitting on the counter on a pretty cake stand. Somebody should probably stop me. Cricket’s boyfriend commented yesterday that I was sure baking a lot and Cricket told him “she does it when she gets sad in the winter”. She said it like one would say “poor ol’ Memaw, bless her heart, she likes to make puppy noises at the dinner table”. Like I was pitiful or something. All this baking really doesn’t help because I then feel grouchy that I have to clean up the pans and the entire mood is broken. Maybe I’ll just remove this one.

I bought a shirt so bright that the Goose refused to be seen with me in it. It WAS an ugly shirt so I braved the cold and returned it. That didn’t help that much either.

I keep “birdsong radio” going at all times. I am starting to whistle back and have been craving sunflower seeds.

I am eating pills, rubbing on cream and keeping tablets under my tongue of mass quantities of vitamin D. So far, I just smell like old person cream.

I made jello shots in happy summer flavors like mango and lemonade. This turned out so terribly that I can’t comment on it here without someone calling AA and turning me in as a suspect. Let’s just say I’m on the wagon for a month or so and will never partake of jello again …

10. I’d like to come up with something else, but it’s cloudy and it’s cold, and, as happy a person as I am, I am definitely in a winter funk. I’d like to figure out why this number 10 won’t line up with the others, but really, does it matter in this dark and dreary world?

Even in my brightest sweater and even with the “year of the scarf”, I’m sick of this mess.

I know there is an army of my friends who will give me a good amen. I’d prefer they give me airline tickets to somewhere where the sun actually shines. Ugh.

My friend writes a great and funny blog, Forever 51. The other day she asked what the soundtrack of our youth was. That got us talking because the kind of music we listened to says something about us.

When I met my best friend in 2nd grade, I was introduced to “Black Water”. This was pretty eye opening for me as my family only listened to classical music. I had already had the fiasco of “Jeremiah was a Bullfrog” being banned at my house because of the wine reference and I was an empty cup when it came to music. Oh, I could belt out all four stanzas of hymns 1 – 345 in the Baptist hymnal and could hum a good many waltzes and concertos, but the Doobie Brothers were out of my realm. My friend had younger parents and her house had music playing in it that made me feel cool and hip, like an after school special.

When the disco era came along I was still in middle school, tucked away in private school where we belted out the tunes about sex and drugs and had no idea what we were singing about. Barry Manilow and Abba ruled, it’s sad to say.

Upon being sprung from the misery of private school, I threw away my preppy shoes and had the eye opening experience of public education. Kids kissed and held hands in the halls, soon I kissed people in the hall. Kids could bring in a note that allowed them to SMOKE AT SCHOOL. It was an orgy. Peter Frampton rang out, The Who, REO Speedwagon. My first concert was Journey, an event for which my date had to come into my house and convince my mother I wouldn’t die or join a cult from attending.

If I had to pinpoint the band behind most of the shenanigans I committed in high school, though, I would say without a doubt, it was AC/DC. I can hear the bells starting up Hell’s Bells and still get a mental whiff and taste of that time. I can smell my car, a sweet little black Camero with a great stereo, cracklin’s from Long John Silvers spilled between the seats, and a bottle opener magnet on the dash. Led Zeppelin tapes all over the floor mixed up with punk tapes like the Sex Pistols. I remember my Halston perfume and the smoke of the fantastic parties that seem to happen most weekends.

When I met the Goose, he was on a whole different wavelength. He listened to Bruce Springsteen, who honestly causes me a bit of nausea, Jackson Brown, who makes my ears bleed and Jimmy Buffett, whom I’ve come to like in small doses due only to the fun I’ve had at his concerts and to his music. The Goose didn’t know every word to Kashmir and didn’t consider it a holy song. He didn’t know Moving in Stereo, Starship Trooper or any other long make-out songs. For a while, I won him over, most likely because of the making out, but several years into our marriage he produced from his mouth a sentence that could have spelled the end to our union. He said, with all sincerity, “I really only like country music.”. It’s true, that I’ve stayed married to him, whether out of pity or inertia, and tried to gently move him back into the light, but he persists, even asking me to “listen to the words” now and then. It’s a burden I continue to bear and I say with all shame in my heart that my precious daughter, who in high school had purple hair and listened only to music that could take one’s skin off, has veered over into that twangy territory. I find it uncomfortable to think about and embarrassing to admit, but my daughter is a country music fan and I love and support her anyway. I think there might be help group I can attend for this.

I find that in my advanced years I listen to a lot of stuff, rap and Cricket’s old screamo when I run, Grateful Dead at the lake or with wine, but the two kinds of music I continually return to are those of my youth, classical, because my mother played in the Atlanta Symphony and I grew up with the screeching of a practicing violin, and the banging rock anthems of my high school sound tracks. We all go back to what’s comfortable. I once heard someone say that we are going to be a generation of old people, sitting around in rocking chairs, holding hands, eating jello and singing along to Stairway to Heaven and I feel that, possibly due to the punishment our brains took, that time might be closer than we think.

My daughter is a modest child. I cannot conceive of where she gets this trait. Even as a kid, I would whip off my clothes to swim or run through the sprinkler. My mother caught me showing off my parts to the little boy next door and I was summarily sent to the “switch” tree to choose a limb with which I would be whacked. There was lots of skinny dipping as a teen and in those college years came the advent of the hot tub.

Today, at my ripe old age, I would need at least two weeks of prep time before I could even begin to think about getting into a hot tub with others. No carbs could be consumed, there would need to be a good bit of epilation and it would have to coincide with a “good booby day”. In other words, it might not occur except during a comet.

It occurs to me that I require a lot of prep in general now. I have scheduled these two weeks as my doctor weeks for the year. Doctors? Yes, plural.

I was married 8 years before my first child came along. In those years, our insurance company was laughing all the way to the bank as neither I nor the Goose made one doctor visit. Upon having a baby, I was gobsmacked to learn all that’s involved with body maintenance. After my babies, I again drifted into no man’s land for years with no medical upkeep. When my mother died, I figured out that she had not visited a doctor in 43 years. She fully believed that once you let ‘em in, you never get away and I’m beginning to find this is true.

Today I’m at the breast doctor. Driving down here, I was listening to a Kanye song that starts out “weeping and a moaning and a gnashing of teeth” and that refrain has been playing in my mind while I wait. This is a three hour ordeal where lots of woman are sitting around in blue robes, like at the spa, and waiting to be called for a squeeze and a picture, NOT like at the spa. Sometimes there are strangled screams from behind closed doors. This is not as fun as it sounds. There is a drink machine, but not the right kind to make it okay for a stranger to wrestle with me while feeling me up. I keep thinking this is NOT a good thing going on here and I feel kinda resentful that I was told that my breasts were dense. I have a snappy comeback, but it just seems downright rude, and I got a “look” when I giggled at the nurses cold hands, so I’ll keep these things to myself. Apparently, there is no humor in boobland.

Tomorrow’s appointment is with my dermatologist, who will remove a small part of my facial expression for a lot of money.

Next comes the gynecologist who does things to my Ladytown that any other man would need at least two drinks and a bracelet to try.

My point, ladies, is that it takes a village to just stay even now. Remember just rolling out of bed, in last night’s mascara and pulling on jeans off the floor that were baggy because you just lost weight as you slept? Remember partying at night and waking up without a face as puffy as Mayor McCheese? I hate it that I’ve had to break up with french fries and nachos. I want to tell them I really miss them and never stopped loving them. I dream of them.

All my life, I thought I would get to a “certain age” and stop having to worry about it. Our mother’s generation did. They went to get their hair done once a week, wore a girdle and ate whatever they wanted. Like a donkey following a carrot on a stick, I’ve been following this dream. Now, it looks like the reality IS the carrot, not the carrot cake. There are no girdles for us, no wash and set perms. Where are our turbans? Our mumus? Gliding through middle age trying to look like a teenager, feel like a 20 year old and think like an adult is not all it’s cracked up to be. Somehow, I’ve exchanged my spring breaks for doctor’s week. Not a fair trade at all!

Last Sunday we had a really rockin’ sermon on finding time. I say rockin’ because we now go to “church lite” which comes complete with a rock band and disco lights. I can’t complain about the content because our pastor delivers the most loving, funny, informative sermons I’ve ever heard. I just miss the old hymns with all four stanzas in three quarter time, with the music director making those Baptist music gang signs as we sing.

This message pertained to how we live our lives and use our time. In it he quoted a book by a woman who has worked in hospice for years. The book is all about the regrets of the dying. Of course, everyone wishes they’d lived their lives differently and used their time for different things other than work. This caused the Goose to roll his eyes a bit and ask who would have paid for things if he hadn’t worked so hard, but the rest of us got a lot out of it.

I had already been thinking of this and have been trying to have more fun and less stress. The Goose will be really be rolling when he gets to this line because, apparently, I have a stress free life anyway. I am less stressed because I’m made that way. I am optimistic, usually see the bright side (except for those sad dark weeks of January) and know things will usually turn out okay. Still, it’s easy to slide into the drudgery of everyday life. Most mornings, my friend the Trophy Wife will call to see what i’m up to. Every day, I mean every single solitary day, we say the same dialogue:

Good morning!

What’s up?

Nothing, cleaning up the kitchen, you?

Same.

How does this happen?

Because no one knows where anything goes but me.

Same here, or to paraphrase, word to your mutha.

It’s said by every woman everywhere at exactly the same time. While men in other countries are simultaneously bowing toward Mecca, woman are muttering “why can’t anyone put anything where it goes?”. Someone really should work on getting us synchronized and it’d be a lot more fun. Maybe someone could add music like they did for that guy who said “hide yo kids, hide yo wife”. .

One of my favorite movie lines is from the Addams Family where someone asks Morticia how things are going. She replies, shrugging her shoulders, “oh, you know, I just wish I had more time to seek out the dark forces and join their hellish brigade”. I feel her pain. There is just no time for anything it seems. I am not half as busy as I was 10 years ago, but seem to get nothing done. Saturday night we had three delightful invitations, all would have been great, but 8:00 saw both the Goose and me, in our jammies, in the bed, watching mindless tv. This just is not right.

This sermon has made me renew my efforts for fun with great devotion. I’m really not sure what he was going for was that we try to party more, but that’s what I’m taking from it. This year, I’m going to have more fun whether my house is straight or not. While I am going to continue to berate my children into cleaning up their mess, I’m not going to restrict them from having friends over until a 24 hour “clean quarantine” period has passed after maid day. I’m going to sit in my yard, drink more wine and watch my animal kingdom cavort. I may or may not pull out old prom dresses, or I might try something new. This might be the year for big hats. I’m going to go OUT, into the big world, after 8:00 on some weekend nights. I’m going to wear my good shoes in the rain and not save them until my dog chews them up. I will use my grandmother’s crystal every time I have a pretty drink and sometimes just when I’m having water. I will visit friend’s houses and not look at the clock, feeling the need to pull a “homing pigeon” and run home to see that a stray crumb has not fallen on my floor. There might be days when I don’t make my bed, but most likely not as I want to enjoy life, not live like someone from 16 and Pregnant.

I am NOT going to lie around, in my lovely lavender bed jacket from Neiman Marcus (take heed, Cricket, the one that matches my purple earrings) and not have any (more) wild secrets to tell my hospice nurse. I want her scandalized enough to be unable to look me in the eyes.

Recently I read a story about a deer stuck in a pond. The story ran in my favorite online newspaper, Cumming Patch. I mention this because they run my blogs and it would behoove everyone to pull them up and read them over there. (Those of you who remember Petey Pablo, disregard any similarity to “I’d like to give a shout out to Segram’s Gin – because I drink it, and they’re payin’ me for it”.)

The story was about a young doe trapped in a retention pond. Workers noticed her stuck in the frigid water, left her over the New Year’s holiday, and then called emergency services to come and rescue her on Wednesday. This leaves me speechless. At least someone called someone sometime and the little lady was finally pulled from the water and it is said she ran off, gratefully, into the woods.

I’m surprised I didn’t get the call on this one. I was out of town and wasn’t answering the phone, though, if they did call. I get a call from the county animal control, the police or someone with an animal emergency almost every day. Geese with broken wings, opossums in a drain pipe, fawns in a fence. It’s impossible for me to say no and but when I am called to come and collect something, say a pack of coyotes, I do sometimes answer these people with the statement “I’m just one girl”.

What I started out to do is raise babies, not really rescue the big guys. Still, my entire family has lived the last ten years in the middle of creature crisis. Years ago, my son, The Boy, once held a giant vulture in his lap all the way to a baseball game, played the game and then was forced to hold him again on the way home. It’s a lot to ask of an 8 year old. We once had such a rambunctious young buck in the car that it took both of my kids to hold him still in the back seat, ducking hooves, until we could get him home and look him over. We lost a baby opossum in the Ritz Carlton at the beach and all hell ensued until we found her. The first time my friend, The Trophy Wife met my little boy he had two tiny fang sized scabs on the sides of his nose. When she asked him what happened he explained that he was bitten by a snake. He then went on to tell her that his mother asked him to hold still with the dangling snake on his nose while she went to get a camera. Amazingly, she still became my friend. We’ve traveled with ground hogs, squirrels, raccoons, you name it. If they needed to be fed, they went along with us. It’s been a trip, to say the least.

I love the stories in the news that end up like this one about the deer. If you google animal rescue stories, there are great ones every day. From people taking in stray dogs to countries building land bridges over freeways so wildlife can cross without injury. My own sweet Dad once stole a dog right out of someone’s fence because he saw it being horribly mistreated. It was the only thing I ever knew of that he did “wrong” and nothing shows more heart.

Raising deer has been one of the best things in my life. They’re like doberman pinschers in they don’t show much facial expression. But like the dogs, they are super intelligent, loving and funny. This is why I get so worked up about deer hunters. There is no difference in hunting deer and hunting dogs, but I won’t get into that here. The fawns I’ve raised have had such weird, individual personalities that I remember each one fondly, just like a teacher remembers her students. I remember their names, their quirks and I hope for the best for them out there in the “big free world”. And if they happen to come across a human, and I hope they don’t, I pray it’s someone with a beautiful soul like these rescue guys.

I think a heart for animals shows there is hope left in humanity. The thought of these men on the emergency crew, standing in the cold, wading in the freezing water and spending hours to save one sweet little doe, that others would gladly get pleasure from shooting, warms my heart. It’s my personal believe that one day we’ll all stand before God and he’ll be so happy about the fact that we loved and protected his beautiful creatures that he’ll overlook all the swearing at other drivers, the gossiping about our in-laws and the possible, eh, probable overindulgences with wine. Take a minute and let that opossum or squirrel cross the road. It’ll do you both some good.